Beyond the flowers, a hill of impossibly succulent grass sloped to a lake. It dizzied Ginger; she had never seen so much green in one place. Sunlight glanced off the lake as if it were a gigantic mirror. As her mind adjusted, she realized people were running under the trees near the shore. It was more than the four General Spearcaster had described. A group of large men in the dark clothes worn by Jazidians were attacking a woman in a green silk tunic and trousers and a slender man with impossibly yellow hair. The woman held a baby in her arms. Two beleaguered Taka Mal guards were trying to hold off the attackers, but they were woefully outnumbered.
Grayrider’s hooves tore up the grass as Darz sped toward the group. One of the taller men caught the woman and wrenched her to a stop. Two other men grabbed the man with yellow hair. The Taka Mal guards were fighting three of the Jazidians, their swords flashing, but they couldn’t break through to the woman. When the man who had caught her tried to take the baby, the man with yellow hair went berserk. He fought furiously against his captors with his fists, but he was obviously outmatched in size, strength, and training.
“Gods almighty.” Darz drew his sword and shouted in his booming voice, “Get the flaming hell off her!”
The fighters spun around, and the woman twisted away from the man who had caught her. She lunged into a run, cradling the child against her chest, and raced up the slope toward Darz. She shouted something, not “Help me!” but what sounded like, “Help Drummer!”
Darz bore down on them all with his sword held high. The Jazidians regrouped to face him, their blades glinting, and the Taka Mal soldiers ran to the man with yellow hair. Then Darz was in the midst of the group, slashing at the Jazidians from horseback. He faced six of them, but they were on foot, which gave him an advantage. And he was angry. Ginger didn’t think he even realized she was still on the horse. He clenched her around the waist with one arm while wielding his sword with the other, and she held her breath, praying his rage didn’t incinerate her along with the warriors.
What must have looked like an easy kill to the assassins suddenly wasn’t so simple. Darz swung at one of them, and the man parried with a straight rather than curved blade. Metal swords clanged as the swords hit. Darz struck again, and this time he knocked the weapon out of the man’s hand. It arced through the air and landed in the grass.
To Ginger, time seemed to slow, as if they moved through invisible molasses. Darz’s blade descended again, painfully bright in the sun. The assassin raised his arms to ward it off, and his face clenched into a snarl. Then the sword hit, cleaving the man through his arm and from his left shoulder to his right side. Blood shot into the air, splattering Darz’s horse. Ginger screamed, and it echoed in her ears. Until that moment, she hadn’t truly comprehended what it meant that her husband was a warrior.
Everything jolted back to normal speed, and she realized other riders had joined them, the sentinels Darz had called for. It was too many people, too many voices, too much happening. The assassin Darz had killed lay on the ground in his own blood.
Several sentinels dismounted and joined the Taka Mal guards protecting the man with yellow hair. Two of the assassins were crumpled on the grass, and the sentinels were taking the others prisoner. The woman with the baby was trying to reach the man with the yellow hair, but people had surrounded her, talking, hovering, enclosing her and the child in a protective cocoon. Ginger stared at her, knowing she had seen the face before. Her head was swimming. That woman…her face…it was on the gold hexa-coin of Taka Mal.
“Ah, gods,” Ginger whispered. She swayed and started to topple off the horse.
Darz put his arms around her, still holding his bloodied sword. He leaned over, his forehead against the back of her head. “Don’t fall, Ginger-Sun.”
“Sire,” a man said. “We have them all. Four are alive.”
Darz’s head lifted. “Lock them in the north tower. And have Spearcaster and Firaz meet me in the conference room.”
Ginger struggled to get her bearings. The yellow-haired man and the woman were together now, the man with his arms around the woman and her baby, the three of them surrounded by guards. Yellow hair. How could it be? The only person she knew without dark hair was herself, and hers was the color of fire. It was easier to wonder at his hair than to absorb the truth, that she was looking at the queen of Taka Mal and her Aronsdale consort.
It finally registered on Ginger’s dazed mind that a sentinel on a large bay horse had come over to them. He was the one who had spoken to Darz. She couldn’t take it all in, but she didn’t want to pass out, not in front of all these people.
The sentinel was watching Ginger. To Darz, he said, “Do you or your guest need any medical help?”
“I’m fine,” Darz said. “But, yes, bring a doctor.” Holding Ginger, he spoke in a low voice. “I couldn’t let go of her. The assassins—they tried to murder all the heirs.”
“Yes, sir.” The sentinel didn’t seem to know how to respond. Ginger was glad she wasn’t the only confused person here.
After the guard went for the doctor, a man on a sleek black charger rode up to them. He must not have been in the royal party entertaining Jazid diplomats, because he didn’t have on a dress uniform; he wore “only” the day uniform of a Taka Mal general, with four rather than five disks to indicate his rank.
This second general peered at Darz. “Where have you been? We’ve been searching for you for over a ten day.”
“It’s a long story.” Darz sounded exhausted. “Firaz, would Yargazon really do it, ride on Taka Mal?”
“We’ve sent scouts out to see what they can find.” He was staring at Ginger. “Who is this beautiful creature?”
“Do not call my wife a creature,” Darz said sharply.
Ginger hadn’t been fully aware of just how many people were around them, all talking, until everyone went silent. The queen turned from her discussion to look. Although she still had the shawl that had wrapped her baby, her husband held the child protectively cradled in his arms.
“Your wife?” Firaz’s brow furrowed. “I don’t recall any negotiations about you taking a wife.”
“I did the damn negotiations myself,” Darz growled.
“I see.” Firaz didn’t look as if he saw at all.
Darz reached into the travel bags and rummaged until he found the scrolls. “These are the documents. She and I both signed them.”
A memory rushed back to Ginger: Darz, trying to rewrite his name on the scrolls and smudging it instead. Making it look like Baz. And he had added Ar’Quaaz. It was an arcane way to say “of the city of Quaaz.” Except it had one other meaning, even rarer and more antique: Of the House of Quaaz. No one used it, of course, because Taka Mal had almost none of the ancient highborn houses remaining except the Zanterians—
And the Quaazeras.
He had written his true name on that scroll that night, at the same time he wrote that she and their children would be his full heirs. Baz Goldstone Quaazera. Gods help her, she had married a member of the royal family.
General Firaz had unrolled one of the scrolls and was studying it. “Damn thing looks in order.”
The queen spoke from where she stood with her consort. Her voice was husky and rich. “Baz, it would behoove you to provide your wife with more clothes than the undertunic of a Jazid soldier.”
Ginger shivered and crossed her arms, painfully aware of her clothes. The undertunic was opaque instead of translucent, but she was still sitting in front of all these impossibly important people with her arms and legs bare, and nothing but a light shift covering her.
Vizarana walked over to them, flanked by guards. The image on the hexa-coins hadn’t exaggerated her beauty. Black curls cascaded over her shoulders. At the moment, her very large eyes were also very angry. She frowned at Darz. “If this lovely young woman is your wife, perhaps you might treat her in a more hospitable manner?”
As soon as Darz inhaled, Ginger knew that, saints help them, he was going to shout at the q
ueen of Taka Mal. Before he managed a word, though, Vizarana frowned with an expression that looked exactly like his when he was irate. “Don’t yell at me, Baz.”
“I was saving your damn life,” he growled.
Her face gentled. “And I thank you with the deepest gratitude, dear cousin.”
Cousin. Ah, no. Vizarana was the one he was supposed to have married. Except she wed the Aronsdale prince instead. Her “skinny” husband was the lithe young man who stood watching them while he held his child as if he would protect her from a thousand assassins.
General Firaz was scanning the scroll. “Baz, this says you married her twelve days ago.”
“That’s right.” Darz’s hair rustled as he turned his head behind her. Pinwheels danced in her vision.
Firaz had a strange expression. “Then it is possible she may be with child?”
Saints above! Ginger’s face flamed. Why would he bring up such a private matter? She probably wasn’t pregnant, but it was a matter between Darz and her, not Darz and her and his generals.
“I know,” Darz said. Incredibly, his voice was uneven. He had faced death at least three times in the past few days without a flinch, yet at the mention of the slight chance he might have impregnated his wife, his voice shook. Ginger thought perhaps she understood men even less than she had realized.
In a low voice, she said, “It happens, you know.”
Darz spoke softly. “Aye, Ginger-Sun. Yargazon sought to murder Vizarana’s heirs, never knowing he had as his prisoner the woman who might carry the child third in line to the Topaz Throne, after Vizarana’s child and myself.”
And then, finally, she understood. All of it. Why the Dragon-Sun had tested her fidelity to Darz, and why the Shadow Dragon implied the sun had chosen Darz for her, though he favored her for himself. If you want him, you may have him. The sun had given her the Quaazera prince, the man of highest rank and title in all Taka Mal, the human embodiment of the Dragon-Sun.
It was too much. She sagged in Darz’s arms. She wanted to say Take me home, but she had no idea what place to call home. She needed somewhere safe, away from all these staring, stunned people, where she could curl into a ball and nurse her injuries.
“Baz,” the queen said. “I think you better let her down.”
Darz, or Baz as they called him, spoke gruffly. “Firaz, I’ll meet you and Spearcaster in the conference room in twenty minutes.” He waved his hand. “Take the sentinels.”
The general nodded and brought his horse around, calling out orders. Many of the sentinels left with him, but six stayed to guard the royal family. One of the sentinels helped Ginger dismount. Acutely self-conscious, she held down the hem of her tunic as she eased off the horse. When Ginger was standing on the ground, Vizarana motioned the sentinel away and took Ginger’s arm, offering her support. Ginger could do little more than stare at Vizarana’s wild curls and fiercely beautiful eyes.
Belatedly, Ginger realized what she was doing. “Your Majesty, forgive me,” she rasped, and started to drop to her knees. Next to her, Darz jumped down from the horse.
“Don’t do that.” Vizarana caught her elbow and drew her back up. She started to lay her shawl over Ginger’s shoulders, but then she stopped.
“Saints above,” the queen said. “What happened to you?”
Darz put his arms around Ginger, and she leaned her head into his chest, grateful for the support. So tired. She was so tired. Every muscle in her body hurt.
“Dusk Yargazon racked her,” he said grimly.
Vizarana’s stunning voice turned icy. “I see.”
Spots danced in Ginger’s vision. Her legs felt odd, as if they no longer contained bones. They melted under her. With a sigh, she slid out of Darz’s hold and crumpled to the ground.
21
Sky Colors
Time flowed. Hours. Days. Ginger didn’t know. She lay on a soft mattress enveloped by covers. Sometimes a woman hovered over the bed, tending her. Another woman came, older, gentle. She fed Ginger soup from a yellow glazed bowl. Other times Vizarana was there, speaking in her distinctive voice. Guards came in and out of sight. But most of the time Ginger escaped into sleep.
The next time she awoke, the bed had turned hard. Gritty. Lifting her head, she peered around.
She was lying in the desert.
Bewildered, Ginger slowly sat up. She felt as if she were moving in a thick syrup. Whoever had brought her here had left her with nothing, not even water. A chill cut through her shift. She shivered and rubbed her hands on her arms. Surely she would have awoken when they carried her out here. Unless they drugged her. Did they find her marriage to Darz that abhorrent? Although he wouldn’t be the first Quaazera prince to wed a priestess, it was unusual. They might tell him she died while he was away dealing with Yargazon. But that didn’t fit; they had seemed solicitous rather than hostile.
She recognized nothing here and saw no sign of the city or the travelers who thronged to it. Orange ground spread to the horizon, with jagged red rocks. No life showed, not even the virtually indestructible sand-grass. The day had dimmed as if it were overcast, yet the sun burned low on the horizon in a cloudless sky. The light had a red cast, and the desert was dark even where rays of the setting sun touched the earth.
Ginger climbed to her feet and looked around the stark plain. She rubbed her hands on her arms, seeking warmth. The last molten sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon, and the desert reddened even more. The color wasn’t in the sky, it filled the air. The luminous hues swirled into a pillar—
And took on human form.
The woman was twice as tall as Ginger, and the layered drapes of her gown glowed like a sunset. Her hair rippled and streamed until it was difficult to tell where it ended and the air began.
Ginger went down on one knee and bowed her head. You honor me, Lady Sunset.
Rise, child. Her voice was like whiskey that had aged for centuries, millennia, eons. It held the promise of beginnings but also the fading of life.
Ginger rose to her feet. I am privileged by your presence. But I did not call you.
You have always called me, Ginger-Sun. She extended her hand, and a fire opal glowed on her palm. With this.
Did you give me the spells? Hope stirred in Ginger. Would she finally understand the source of her power? Then I will always honor them.
If you use them in honor of me, I am pleased. She closed her hand around the opal, and its light shone through her fingers. But the gifts do not come from me. They descend from Your Aronsdale grandfather.
Gifts? I fear they are a curse.
They are what you make of them. Be wise. Her thoughts flowed. Understand the price they exact. The illness you suffer now is as much from the violent use of your power as from what you endured by Yargazon’s hand.
Ginger had felt the backlash of her spells. The darkness is within me.
To know light, you must know shadows. They cannot exist without each other.
Ginger spoke the fear that had always been with her, even more since she had created the inferno in Sky Flames. The power makes me less.
Why?
Because I’m capable of terrible acts.
You can choose to reject such acts, except when to do otherwise would be a greater evil. Her ageless gaze never wavered, though her body rippled with light. To do what is right though you are capable of great wrong is a more powerful good than to do what is right because you can do nothing else.
I don’t know if I can always choose what is right.
You have said it yourself: If the dragon always smoothed your path, it would weaken you. You choose. That demands more of you, but in doing so, you become more. Remember this.
I will remember. She spread her hands out from her body. But why, if I celebrate the sun, do my spells come only in the hours of shadow?
Perhaps it is for you to bring light into the dark. Her thoughts rippled. So it is that I set you a task.
A task?
Bring light to my d
aughters, Ginger-Sun. You have come within the highest circles of the land. If you can make a difference in the constrained lives of my daughters, I charge you with that task.
As it is your will, it will be mine. She wasn’t sure how she could better the lives of other women, but she would try.
The colors of Sunset’s body faded. If your need is ever again great, call on us. I cannot promise we will come; The balance must reassert itself. But we will try….
The light disappeared, and Ginger was alone in the desert. The sky overhead had deepened into twilight, and stars sparkled like a dust of diamonds.
“Wait!” She turned in a circle, searching the barren land. “Don’t leave me here.”
Only the keening wind answered her.
“Wait!” Ginger sat bolt upright. Voluminous bedcovers fell down to her waist. She was staring at a candle burning in a porcelain holder at the foot of her bed. The rest of the room was in shadow. The window opposite showed the twilight sky with a glitter of early stars.
The pounding of her heart slowed. Maybe she had dreamed the Sunset. Taking a breath, she pushed her hand through her hair.
Orange sand scattered across the sheets.
Across the room, the door swung inward. A woman bustled in bearing a tray with a steaming bowl, and another woman followed, holding a candle. With a start, Ginger realized the light bearer was the queen.
“You’re awake,” Vizarana said. She motioned for the other woman to set the tray on the nightstand. The smell of leek and saffron soup wafted enticingly around Ginger.
After the maid left, Vizarana sat in the chair by the bed and set her candle on the tray. “Are you hungry?”
“In a bit,” Ginger said. “I’m a little groggy.” In truth, she was too self-conscious to eat in front of the queen. Vizarana was twice her age, with a matured beauty that came as much from her strength as any arrangement of features. In her presence, Ginger felt callow. Rather than the constraining garb favored by highborn women, the queen wore a red tunic and a pair of Zanterian riding trousers dyed a rich crimson. Gleaming crimson balls dangled from her ears, and a matching necklace glinted around her throat. Her black hair spilled wildly about her shoulders. In the gold sheath on her belt, a dagger with a topaz in its hilt glinted. She looked like a barbarian warrior more than a stateswoman.